Rumor has it that an American donated hundreds of books to the local high school. (rural district – name withheld). Later, somebody saw them locked up in storage and suspects that the teachers are planning to sell them for profit. If it’s true, it explains the venal look in the director’s eyes. His expression sours further when I tell him I’m here to sell, not to donate.
I get the half-nod of approval and work the classes. They are typical. I can identify the 2% of curious and bright minds that must wonder every day why god dropped them into rural Laos. Then there are those who are more concerned about their hair than buying a book. Nonetheless, I’m satisfied with the 70 books I’ve sold in a few hours.
I’m back on the road. This is where people cross streets to see what I have. They’re curious as if they haven’t seen a new book in years. At the same time, they hesitate to buy in the way I’d hesitate to put a down payment on a house. They’ll spend $1.20 for beer, for a bowl of noodles or to fill up their phone, but it’s likely that they’ve never spent money on a book before. There’s always a first time and it’s probably scary.
Again, I’m not following any marketing rules. If I had targets to meet, I wouldn’t waste time in places where a sale is a minor miracle. For example, I check out the high school “dorms” where the upcountry kids live. I figure we’re already in the country because my phone doesn’t work, but there’s country and then there’s country-country. These little woven bamboo shacks can hardly be called dorms. They’re dirt-floored shacks. Shacks like you’d make on a Boy Scout outing. Shacks like emergency shelters after a hurricane. Heat, mud, cold, bugs, noise, misery. And here I think I’ll sell a book.
I’ve discounted way down to 10,000 kip. In the city I sell for 17,000 or 22,000. That’s what’s printed on the books. When I say I’m selling for 10,000, I often hear surprised murmurs. They know it’s cheap, most still won’t buy.
One bouncy boy who has already bought a set leads me to potential customers. Many of the “boarders” are from ethnic minority groups. It’s remarkable that somewhere in the fields, digging around in the dirt or hunting for fish with a spear, some kids find the itchy inspiration to study. One boy looks at the book while the others crowd around like gang members. He has bravado, not because he has tattoos or knives, but because he’s getting ready to buy a book. It’d be too much to think that one book would make a difference, but I hope it does.
The girls are more vulnerable. They don’t get to become gang leaders because they study. I tongue lashed a mother once who wouldn’t buy her daughter the ABC book. The girl knew for some reason that I had books in my bag and tugged on my sleeve to see one. Her mother yelled at her, “You don’t need a book. You can’t even read.” I think she understood my Lao because I could see verbal whip marks on her face. “Don’t you dare devalue your daughter in that way. She can do a lot more in her life than just make babies.”
One book sells in the shack dorms to a petite girl with bright eyes. She looks happy, like I’ve just delivered to her doorstep the kind of juicy tomatoes she’d been dreaming of.
There’s an evening English class so I’ve filled my bag. I find one interested cluster of students, but then the lights go out. I assume we’re pretty much finished, but within seconds, cell phones become small flashlights and they go right on inspecting the books. It’s not that easy understand, or see for that matter, but something new seems to fascinates them. Someone scans my face with the light of his cell phone.
He’s the teacher and he says he knows me from three or four years ago. I don’t remember his face, but I can put the story together. He suggests I teach a bit and I think quickly how it can be done in the dark.
A lot can be done in the dark. You can concentrate in the dark. You don’t have to shout in the dark. You can shape sounds with varied nuances and people hear them. It was a new discovery, a new technique for Laos. How to learn without electricity.
(Note: this young man studies at the orphan/slash/ethnic minority school. Check out the fashion: his sideburns are charcoal.
